Take me to Canaan,

to that blessed land

Where Messiahs walked

and teachers taught

From cities made in sand.

The whole world’s dick

is in it’s hand,

and they’re trading nervous looks;

but Israel a Jewish State?

I don’t think Murders in that book.

This can’t keep happening forever,

somebody’s got

to pull the lever pretty soon,

Russia sits and mocks the West

as they play the game,

Africas forgotten still

(Has anything really changed?)

And all you Tamils

better run for the hills,

Cause Sri Lanka’s got more camps to fill

So get on over to Australia,

See if Tony Abbott’ll have ya.

Don’t take what I’m  writing to heart,

it’s just a little poem,

I just want to play my part,

(some things are better thought than spoken)

All this is exciting,

but it’s three whole worlds away!

I can’t be concerned with human rights

when I’ve got work today.

Ye olde Soothesayers who sit boothed in Jersey diners,

Ye mystics of the cole-slaw truths

of club sandwich Rudolph Steiners,

Though Germanic Gods are dead and gone

occultist dreams can yet live on

In bathroom stalls and Tinton Falls,

the alters still exist;

the midnight glow

of candlelight shows

those secret ritualists;

The Anglo-Saxon dirty napkin

of Medieval Olde-Norse runes;

A greasy cup of coffee flood

and a rising orange Moon;

add two drops of Dragon’s blood

to the house soup or Caesar salad,

Rub the magik stone and chant

That evil alma mater.

oyster crackers Mythos calls you soul to pickle,

Linoleum divination

Reveals another jukebox-nickle…

The Gothic inscriptions carved

within ye all

Lie scratched upon

thine dessert case wall;

So follow me to see what is or what may be

ye draconian pupils of Merlin

to have a taste of deep-fried Destiny

on the road back to Carthage or East Orange,

for Guido von List

may yet persist

in a waitresses kiss

in a drainage ditch

that reeks of piss

or some parking lot abyss

off Route 46;

What I’m trying to say is this;

Magic is everywhere

and A cannoli is

my only holy

scroll.

Callused hands

and bluegrass bands,

and Ferris-wheel love

from up above

The Atlantic City pier;

My life’s been going

pretty fine

when I stop to think

from time to time,

but it has it’s wears

and I’ve had my shares

of defeat and cold regret.

Now look ahead and close your eyes

as the sun begins to set,

But hold your scars close to you

until our Maker’s met;

For though it’s hard for us to do,

we must never let

ourselves Forget.

They come in every size and shape, they’re guidos from the Wildwood shore, or big laughing Hawaiians. They come from LA, and they come from Poland. They’re filled with jokes, and they’re deadly serious; They’re human calculators from Calcutta, or they’re hairy Israeli Mexican Druids from Santa-Cruz. They roughhouse and they read books (love fantasy and Sci-Fi!) They stock the dairy shelves and they make me laugh when I’m feeling low; They climb trees and burn money, They’re radical liberal Hippies with flower-eyes and communist dreams, and libertarian conservatives, They’ve married young and they’ve lived alone, They’re Persian bastards Who I truly love, and berserking barbarians when it’s party time in D&D.They are volcanic redheads who are truly insane, and they are pig-tailed men who speak in riddles and rhymes. They speak Ukrainian and they smoke pot. They steal from the rich and give to the poor, They’re reckless and they’re tame, They’re introverts and they’re burglars. Their name is Sclurbs (I don’t know why) and they are farmers and musicians, Metalheads and activists, They’re smartass Stickboys, Who can’t shut up, And Honest G’s, wise and reserved. They’re East Coast Gay Boys, and they love linguine with (white!) clam sauce. They’re loud and they’re proud, they’re quiet and they’re hurt. They’re Raw Power or they’re surfers with trucks, who quietly sip rootbeer on the beach at night; They are thick-headed or loyal (sometimes I don’t know which!) They’re Jewish raccoons who find peace in winter, or metrosexual fashionistas! They’re fiery Cubans (who think they’re Italian) or beautiful Puorto-Ricans, with sun-kissed skin. They love good espresso, and they’re slinking Frenchmen; they are Pokemon masters, and they will marvel at every scene in Blade Runner. They’re Homosexual and straight, and they’re more sensative then they look. They can be brave and they can be scared, but that doesn’t matter. They’re professors and old teachers, your brothers and your Cousins, and they get you into trouble, then get you out; They apologize or they fist-fight, They smoke hand rolled cigarettes and come from Seattle; Drive motorcycles and make damn good cider. They have beautiful hair and lovely eyes, They’ve been to prison, and they’ve got regrets. They’re old and they’re young, they’re Christian and they’re Bokonist, and they’ve brought pizza over to my house every Friday night since I was born. They guard my life, and they take my money on poker night. They are the Children of the Information Generation, who fight spies with gaming-controllers, and they’re outdoorsmen who loathe the screen. They are inward and they are outward, witty and Simple. I’ve known some since kindergarten, and some I’ve just met, They have badass scars and imperfections. They are big Russian freckle-faced sweethearts and Irish comedians looking for that break. They are feminists and they are fierce competitors.They’ll always surprise you, and they’ll never fail you. They fill in the cracks, and they keep you together. They are all different. They help you everyday to grow and learn. They are Friends, and I love every one of them so much I could die for them Without batting an eye. I am blessed.

Here we go again

America’s lost it’s head

Please Give love a chance

Someone lend me

a helping hand

and Take me to

my promised land;

My wife is dead from missile strikes

and you’ll never understand

The world may be numb to this

But I can’t quite say I am;

Hamas and Netanyahu

direct unconditional hate

Leaves me wondering who

Has got the fullest plate

My organs

are the violent churning waters of the ocean

beating on the pilings beneath the Atlantic City boardwalk

during a late July

tropical storm.

My heart is a torrential riptide,

So fierce

And so strong

That resistance is useless.

My Soul is Waves and swells of salt water

that never stop coming,

That rise up out of the grey sea Again

and Again.

My eyes are the lightning strikes

That you watch split the sky over the Ocean at night

from the inside of your home;

Love me for what I am

or Fear me and Drown

I do not indulge

in the Bullshit of Landlings.